Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
The House by the River
Chelsea lay quieter than Mayfair, its streets washed in soft midday light and touched with the faint scent of the river.
Our carriage turned onto a narrow lane where the houses grew older and more dignified—stucco facades, iron railings, tidy steps freshly swept.
Each was respectable, restrained, and impeccably kept.
Which, of course, made the task more difficult.
The footman sat on the narrow seat opposite me, his attention fixed on the passing houses. I would need his help to find the correct building.
“Weston, we are looking for a house called Riversgate. All of these are dignified, so it must distinguish itself in some way. Look for a nameplate—or a property that stands just a shade above the rest. It should be near the river.”
He nodded. “Yes, my lady.”
The carriage slowed as we passed each row of houses.
Some boasted fresh paint and polished knockers; others appeared drowsy from disuse, their shutters closed against the sun.
I checked the numbers, watching for anything that matched the image forming in my mind—a respectable house masking a terrible lie.
At last, Weston shifted on his seat, his gaze fixed beyond the glass. “My lady,” he said quietly, “this one seems promising.”
I followed his line of sight. Ahead stood a graceful three-story house with pale stone steps and a blue-painted door. A brass knocker caught the sunlight, and the curtained windows regarded the street with serene indifference.
“Weston—have the carriage stop,” I said.
He gave a brief nod and tapped once against the roof. The carriage slowed and came to a halt.
I leaned closer to the glass, searching the stone beside the door. A small nameplate was fixed neatly in place.
Riversgate.
We’d found it.
With Weston’s assistance, I stepped down. My pulse pounded at my temples as I mounted the steps of the house. Nothing about it looked sinister. Somehow, that made it worse.
I lifted the knocker and let it fall. A moment passed. Then the door opened.
A housemaid—young, fair, and plainly startled—blinked at me. “Good day, my lady. May I help you?”
“Good day,” I said with practiced calm. “I am seeking a Mrs. Kincaid. I was told she is in residence here.”
The maid blinked again, confusion knitting her brow. “Mrs. Kincaid? I’m afraid no one by that name lives here.”
I held my breath. “Are you certain?”
“Yes, my lady. Quite certain.” She shifted uneasily. “The family only returned to London last week. They’ve not had visitors save the doctor and the post.”
Ice seeped into my veins. “And before they returned? During the winter months?”
“Oh, the house was shut up,” she said apologetically. “They were in Bath for the winter. There wasn’t a soul here except the caretaker.”
“Was he here regularly?”
“Off and on, my lady. To air the rooms and be sure nothing leaked. But Mrs. Kincaid? No, I’ve never heard the name.”
My heart sank. “I thank you.”
She curtsied and closed the door gently, as though worried she might bruise my disappointment.
I stood on the steps for a long moment, staring at the elegant blue door. Someone had used this house. Someone had lured Alice Brent here with promises of better wages. Someone had walked her inside and ensured she never walked out whole again.
And now the house was innocent once more. Polished. Respectable. As though nothing wicked had passed through its walls.
Weston hurried forward. “My lady? Are you well?”
“Yes,” I said, stepping down. “No. I don’t know.”
He opened the carriage door, but before I could move, something caught my eye—a figure standing just beyond the edge of the narrow lane, half in shadow, half in sun. Too still to be a passerby.
Steele.
He leaned against a wrought-iron fence, arms folded, his gaze fixed on me with an expression that could have cut through granite—equal parts fury, relief, and something far more perilous.
I lifted a hand toward Weston, signaling him to wait, and then turned slowly toward Steele.
“You followed me.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, pushing away from the fence.
“How did you know where I’d gone?”
“Honeycutt. He overheard you give the coachman directions.”
I opened my mouth to protest—but the words withered. Because he was not wrong. Because I had frightened him. Because deep down I had known he would come.
Steele stopped before me, his expression controlled, but his voice threaded with tension. “You should not be here alone.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I brought Weston.” I nodded toward the footman.
His jaw tightened. “He’s not a shield against whatever happened inside that house.”
“That’s what we agreed upon, Steele. Don’t change the terms.”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
I looked back at the silent facade of Riversgate. The polished brass, the neatly drawn curtains, the peaceful street. None of it told the truth.
“I had to see it,” I whispered. “I had to know.”
Steele exhaled, long and low. “Then let us discuss it. But not standing in the middle of Chelsea.”
He gestured toward his carriage, his hand hovering near the small of my back—never touching, yet guiding all the same.
“Come,” he said.
For once, I did not argue.